It shouldn’t have to be such an uphill struggle to be oneself.
It should not be so difficult to do the things one wants to do.
It shouldn’t be a game of tactics to be with someone you like.
It isn’t right to feel there’s nothing to look forward to at 26.
It isn’t fair that the only thing you’re successful at is surviving.
It isn’t a worthwhile use of time to always learn the same lessons.
It doesn’t change, it doesn’t develop and it doesn’t get easier. But
It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t really matter in the universe.
It doesn’t make sense, but we do what we do, otherwise we don’t.
This isn’t meant to be poetry. Or it is, and meant to be badly written. I used to be able to write decent poetry, a long time ago, but like so many other things I’ve just given up trying. My head is buzzing at the moment with ideas, still strangled by petty meaningless bureaucracy, and ephemeral “urgent” tasks. I want to crawl away somewhere dark with enough light to watch some of the ideas sluice out of my head and into a puddle – enough to reflect something of the world around me.
Know thyself: I seem a reluctant predator of denial, and infested with the parasites of resentment, despond and curdled fury.
